


Danse Macabre

by hobofaerie



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, M/M, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobofaerie/pseuds/hobofaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dance, my puppet. <i>Dance.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Danse Macabre

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm actually unsure as to the exact nature of Kurloz' chucklevoodoos, but based on his interactions with Meulin I figure intense amounts of mental/subliminal suggestion fits the bill pretty well, and so that's what I went with. Shrug.
> 
> I blame everything on Sonamae.

His eyes glow a pretty purple-red, like a mix of your two bloods, and the thought makes you smile. This ain’t a thing you’d ever do to Meulin, not a stroke the same, because those are her own words –you’re just the echo machine.

This though…

Vantas is your puppet, spinning sweet words like you used to preach, but his preachings are all ‘peace’ and ‘tolerance’ and ‘mind you trigger your underpants’. No, he needs some spicing up to be your pretty puppet, and you’re happy to facilitate for the Seer of Nubs.

He sounds like his descendent, now, and you can’t say you all together _mind_.

It goes like this:

He gives a start when you come up behind, but you’ve linked like your Lord was to his sister, and he ain’t gonna make a move to stop you. His teeth click, his fingers twitch, but there’s just shivers and swallows as your nails run under his sweater, and that’s no good at _all_.

Motherfucker’s gotta make some _noise_.

You’d whisper sweet profanities into his ear, oh if only you could, to get a _reaction_ , but that’s been lost to you so you guess it’s his job to voice. Oh, and voice he _does_.

“We twine our fates in a bucket of refuse, held in the hands of a blind prophet,” he babbles, clever tongue spewing nonsense in a voice husked half strange. “Around it goes, around it goes, we run round the drones who make us clones and run us up the flagpole.”

You think he might just _forget_ when this shit goes down, because your nonsensical hatecrush just up and _breaks_ when you take his mind. You let your own thoughts run free; no harm in letting him know how you want this to go down. It’s like a magic windup toy, except this one can think and breathe and move if you just say _please_.

The shirt comes higher, higher, and over his head – you’re happy that his horns don’t make for harsh revisions on clothing. Not like Nitram with his frankly _magnificent_ rack. You could play dress-up with Vantas, no problem, if you had a mind to, but that’s more of Meulin’s thing.

Hey, maybe sometime you’ll let her. What a wicked party _that_ could be.

His voice grows louder the more you take off, like he wants to object but for how the words come out wrong. Like how _‘impropriety’_ becomes _‘fucking shitweasels’_ and _‘Kurloz,_ no _’_ just becomes a low, stuttered gasp of your name. Oh, your cranberry squeeze may _say_ he’s celibate, but he moans like a lowblood whore when you pull him flush against you, and you watch through narrowed oculars as he turns to face your front.

Bones fall away as gloves and shirt come off, and you scratch patterns up old scars and pale skin as he buries his fangs in the crook of your neck. He’s allowed a treat, a bit of control, and when you rile this fucker up he gets sweet and nasty with your stitchmouth smile. Just can’t pull away.

“She twines her hands together and entraps me; he spreads his fingers and relents. She spreads her legs for an eight-legged priestess as he sits upon his high throne and laughs a blood-drenched laugh.”

He whispers in your torn up earflap, prophecies and promises of times that’ll never come to pass, here in the dead session at the end of the road. This is as close to his title he’ll ever get: Seer of Blood, seer of bullshit lineage that don’t make a difference when you’ve got him keening fresh songs at every touch to his bulge.

He _burns_ against your skin, the fire of lowblooded heat that licks its way through your mind and tries to wash it free. Sometimes you can’t hold him, when defiance and opposition run deep and hidden through that red, red blood, but this is almost _more_ fun when he puts up a kind of fight.

Can’t be a proper kismesis if you don’t both get scars.

You can still laugh, a low soft _huff HONK_ in the back of your throat, and when you start to laugh you just don’t fucking _stop_ , all the way down to the ground (it never matters where you are, ‘cause this life is all memories and dreams anyway) as you two scrabble out of the rest of your clothing. He claws as your legs, half feral from your assisted madness, and the stitches _pull_ at your grin as you remove those pesky high-waist trousers.

You’re two gods made one, never mind that neither of you ever reached the tier, and if a Prince is a step below a Lord than you think the green devil would smile to see you taking over.

He’s a screamer, Vantas is, with a horse edge that comes from never ever fucking _shutting up_ , but when he’s sitting on your lap with his bulge flicking and wet with eagerness he pulls out the second best card he’s got squared away.

He _begs_.

He begs like Maryam when she’s gone twelve hours without something shoved up her nook; like Serket looking for attention and Ampora looking for love. He begs how you’re sure that never-future self of his would never stoop to, but he ain’t the high and mighty _Sufferer_ but just your _Insufferable_ .

You grin, and punch him in the face. You wouldn’t want it any different way.

And so you let him have it; you press close and drag your fingertips feather-light down his back, and then dig your claws in – he gasps, red blood pricking out and dying your claws orange as sin and flames

_the better to hurt you with, my dear_

and he can’t help but retaliate, tearing something fierce into your stomach. He keeps his claws blunt and rounded but it ain’t a thing to ignore in his fury, and he pulls the indigo out; makes you choke for breath and makes you tremble with the kind of glee only a good fight can _bring_. And because you’re feeling charitable, because he’s going along _just so well_ , you let him reach for your bulge even as you run fingers up his own.

It doesn’t take long before you’re both spilling out genetic material, too riled from the fighting to care about buckets or gettin’ a proper handle on this shit, and it leaks onto the floor in a shade that looks like Pexies’ eyes -

_that looks like his own eyes, right now_

\- a pretty pink for your _pretty_ puppet, and you throw the motherfucker off of you and down to the floor even as you push yourself up.

You grab your clothes and walk away, rage sated and simmering something blissfully soft, as he pants, lost and alone, in the slick pool of fluid. You don’t let him out of your head until you’re out of sight, and you hear stuttered gasps of confused indignation as you walk the fuck _away_.

You smile, and it _pulls_ ,

 _and it feels_ good

and you feel the fresh bruises blooming across your skin in such a delicious way that you know you’ll be back for that motherfucking talky mouth.

_And you think that he doesn’t hate you, really, not like you hate him, but that’s just something that you’ve learned to die with._


End file.
